by Polly Iyer
“Now, tell me who’s after you, and why.”
“I don’t know. They did things to make me forget.”
“Who did those things to you?”
“I can’t remember. They gave me pills and shot me full of drugs that made me see things, that made my paintings talk to me. No more. I need to sleep. I’m so tired. Let me rest. One minute.”
“Not now, Stewart,” Abby pleaded. “You have to tell me why Dr. Scanlon gave you drugs. What did he want from you?”
When Stewart didn’t answer, Luke said, “He passed out. I don’t think we’ll get anything more out of him right now.”
Abby turned off the recorder. “We’re so close, Luke. He’s come here for absolution. If we call the police, they’ll send him back to Scanlon’s hospital where the doctors will do what they’ve been doing for the last eight years. Drugging the hell out of him.” She paused for a minute. “Maybe I should say drugging hell into him. We can’t do anything tonight anyway. We can wait till morning.”
“If you’re sure that’s what you want to do. I’ll cuff him to the day bed in the study. Maybe tomorrow he’ll tell us more.”
Abby felt pity for the demise of the Stewart she knew so long ago. The fun-loving, talented, wonderfully idiosyncratic Stewart. “Why have they done this to him? Killing him would have been easier and less painful than turning him into this.”
“There’s a reason, and Stewart’s the key. We just have to find out to what.”
* * * * *
Daisy nuzzled into Abby’s body in the middle of the night. What was going on? She listened and heard Stewart’s pleading cries. Trembling, she poked Luke awake. She turned on the lamp and told a sleepy Luke that Stewart was ranting and delirious, begging them to take off the cuffs, begging them to help him.
“I don’t know what to do to calm him down,” she said.
“What about your psychiatrist friend?” Luke asked, now fully awake. “Couldn’t he give him something?”
Abby fingered her watch. “It’s four-thirty in the morning. If I bring him in on this he’d be bound to report it, and I wouldn’t ask him not to.”
But Stewart continued to rant out of control. After agonizing what to do, she gave in and called Don Weston, apologizing for the middle of the night interruption. She referred to Stewart as a patient who’d lost it and sought her help. Weston said he’d come as soon as he could. Luke gave Abby directions to his house, and she relayed them. Abby knew the story sounded hokey, especially since she wasn’t at home. Weston didn’t ask how the patient knew where she was, and she didn’t go into it. But at five in the morning, it was the best she could come up with. They removed the cuffs from Stewart’s wrists.
When the psychiatrist arrived, Abby said as little as possible. “This is over my head, Don.”
“I’ll give him a shot,” Weston said. “Do you want me to call an ambulance and check him into the hospital?”
Abby hadn’t thought of that and hesitated. “I’d…I’d rather not. He’s a patient, but also a friend. I don’t want him busted if he’s on something.”
Don Weston knew Abby’s history, and if he made the connection after seeing the remnants of Stewart’s face, he didn’t let on. Stewart almost convulsed when he saw the needle, and it took both men to hold him while Don injected him. He left pills with instructions and said it would take time for them to kick in.
“Anything else I can do?” Don asked.
“I think we’ll be okay,” she said. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“If he becomes unmanageable, call me and I’ll administer another shot.” He left, leaving the deception intact. Abby knew he had stretched his ethics because he had to know she lied.
Luke fastened the cuff to the daybed again, and they went back to sleep. Stewart slept like a hibernating bear until noon on Sunday. When he awoke, he acted like a different person. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a clue who that person was.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Seeds of Evil
“What does he look like?” Abby asked, standing at the door of the study.
“Confused.”
Abby switched on the digital recorder.
Stewart made a long ummm sound and said, “Abby?”
“Yes, it’s me. You came here last night,” she reminded him. “Do you remember?”
“I think so. Yes. I had to see you. Could I have something to drink, please?”
“I’ll get some water,” Luke said. He ran his hand across her shoulders as he left the room, returning in a heart’s beat. He whispered to Abby that he was giving Stewart one of Don Weston’s pills. She nodded. “Take this with the water.”
After a long pause, Stewart said, “This isn’t my pill.”
“No, but it’ll make you feel better,” Luke said.
“I don’t want to take any more pills. I don’t, Abby.”
“This one will help, Stewart. A doctor friend left some for you.”
He paused again as if thinking. “If you say so.” He gulped the water then asked for more. Abby wondered when he’d last eaten. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I don’t know. I think I ate a hamburger a day or two ago. What day is this?”
“Sunday. Tell me about the pills.” Abby hoped to keep him on track. “Did Dr. Scanlon give them to you?”
At the mention of Scanlon’s name, Stewart grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. “He’s evil, Abby. He’s an evil man.”
In a defensive reaction, Abby pushed him back a second before Luke yanked Stewart away.
“Dammit.” Luke’s voice seethed with anger. “Keep your hands off her. Haven’t you done enough?”
“Sorry. Oh, God, sorry, sorry.” His words came wrapped in panting breaths. “Sorry, sorry.”
Abby’s heart thumped. Her whole body broke out in hot prickles. “You…you can’t do that, Stewart. I’m not prepared because I can’t see your movements. You scared the hell out of me.”
“I know. It was stupid, but when you mentioned Scanlon…he tricked me. Right from the beginning he tricked me.”
Abby drew a few deep breaths to regain her composure, keeping her voice calm and reassuring. “How did he trick you?” Stewart fidgeted.
“After my…my father’s plane crash, Scanlon gave me pills to relax. Didn’t I tell you? Maybe I forgot. I don’t know any more.” His words fell back into his throat, a mournful lament. “It was in the back of my mind to tell you, but the back of my mind kept going farther back all the time. I couldn’t concentrate. Do you forgive me, Abby? Please say you do. I didn’t mean it.”
Abby wondered whether she could continue. Stewart was so wracked with guilt he wanted nothing more than to be forgiven. “Yes, Stewart, I forgive you,” she forced herself to say. “I know you couldn’t control what you did.”
“I didn’t know what I was doing. I remember my paintings telling me things. I don’t remember what any more. Do you think my paintings told me what to do? Do you, Abby?”
Tears filled Abby’s eyes. “No, Stewart. I think Dr. Scanlon told you what to do.” That bastard.
Stewart stopped squirming, and the room lulled into an uneasy quiet. “Yes, that too.”
Listening to her ex-husband convinced Abby that Dr. Herbert Scanlon had performed a variation of verbal mind control in conjunction with irresponsibly dispensed experimental drugs—planting the seeds of paranoia and controlling its growth. Whatever Stewart knew that resulted in the destruction of so many lives had either been systematically erased from his mind or buried so deep in his subconscious nothing could pry it loose.
Abby’s anger fermented into a poisonous brew. How could any professional trained to treat mental disorders purposely manipulate a man’s mind, and for what self-serving purpose? Stewart sounded like the Manchurian Candidate.
“I’m going to make lunch and let Daisy out for a while,” Luke said.
“Who are you?” Stewart asked
.
“This is my friend, Luke,” Abby said.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now. The cop. I followed you here.”
“You—” Luke hesitated. “That’s right, Stewart.”
“I’ll help Luke make lunch,” Abby said. “Will you be okay if I leave you, Stewart?”
“Yes, I’ll be okay. I feel better. Can you take off the cuff?”
“In a while,” Abby said. “Be patient.”
Luke took her by the hand, and as they started to leave the room, Stewart said, “You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, Abby. Even after everything.”
Abby stopped. She didn’t turn around but spoke over her shoulder. “Thank you, Stewart.”
When she got into the kitchen, she broke down in Luke’s arms. He didn’t say anything to soothe her. He held her close and let her cry until she got it all out.
While Luke cooked lunch, Abby leaned back in the chair, confused, empty, mentally exhausted, and angry. “You were right. Stewart has something or knows something Mrs. Gentry wants, and he won’t let it go. It’s the logical reason he’s still alive. Otherwise, they would have killed him. No one would have suspected murder. Everyone thought he had died years ago anyway. Instead, they stashed him in a mental hospital.”
“Nothing else makes any sense,” Luke said. “Scanlon, the pills, Collyer. Mrs. Gentry controls them all. Her quack doctor drugged Stewart to get information, then he couldn’t control what happened when his patient went off the deep end. DMT can cause erratic behavior. A user can be fine one minute, then have hallucinations the next.”
“Sounds like Stewart.”
“You know, when your mother said Stewart was still alive, I researched him. I wanted to know more about the man you married, before he got sick. Dozens of articles showed his paintings interspersed with interviews. He was an interesting, talented man.” Luke paused, as if he were considering whether to continue. “You must have been very much in love with him.”
In Abby’s experience, men rarely talked about their predecessors with the women they loved. They just flat-out didn’t want to know. But Luke asked, and he deserved an honest answer.
“Yes, with every fiber of my being. I know that’s probably not what you want to hear, but I won’t diminish him by saying otherwise. He’s been diminished enough. Stewart was beautiful and exciting and brilliant. The father of my child. But life with Stewart revolved around Stewart. He was a whirlpool, and he sucked everyone around him into it. That was okay with me at the time, but that was a million years ago. We were different then. If I met Stewart today, the way I am and the way he was, he wouldn’t look twice at me, because I couldn’t see his art or praise his talent. I know he loved Macy and me, but his art made him whole. It gave him life, a sense of where he fit in the world. At least those bastards haven’t taken that from him. I’m sure it’s what’s kept him alive.”
She reached over and found Luke’s hand. “No matter what I felt for him in the beginning, it’s difficult to erase those last months from my mind—and impossible to forget the last day. It’ll always be there. I see the rage and fear in his eyes, and the futility of not being able to stop the slaughter swallows me whole. Now I know something else controlled Stewart, a monster created by even greater monsters.”
“Did Mrs. Gentry contact you after the shooting?”
“A brief call when I came out of the coma to invite me to a memorial service for Macy, which she knew I couldn’t attend. Lucy told me her public statement oozed grief over the tragedy. She claimed she’d never get over it.”
“I bet. I wish Norm Archer would get back to me. People are dead, and I want to find out why a doctor who’s supposed to help people purposely destroyed a man, and what Carlotta Gentry had on him to make him do it.” Luke blew out a slow breath. “I need to go to Charleston.”
“You know what they did to Matt. These people will stop at nothing to protect whatever they’re hiding. Consider what she did to her own son.”
“That’s why I’m worried about you,” Luke said. “I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”
“You have to. I won’t hide out like some thief on the run.”
“I know a guy who can help.”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. You’re not putting some muscle man bodyguard on me. I won’t have it.”
“Only when I’m not with you. You’ll never know he’s around.”
“Of course not. I’m blind, remember.”
“My point exactly. You’re out there every day without the benefit of a crucial sense, vulnerable to whoever comes at you. I know what that’s like, believe me, and my situation doesn’t compare to yours. If you could see, you never would have gotten into Stewart’s car. You’d know who attacked you in your back yard. You—”
Her body slackened in defeat. “Okay, okay, I get the picture. Pardon the pun.”
Luke took her hand. “It’s for your benefit. I’m not trying to confine you or take away your independence. I understand your need for that, but these aren’t ordinary circumstances. I want to make sure you’re safe.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I’m hardheaded, that’s all. I guess it affects my pride when I need help. That still doesn’t answer what to do with Stewart.”
“I think it’s time he got some first-rate psychiatric treatment. Call Dr. Weston. Have him check Stewart into a private facility where he’ll be safe.”
Abby’s head spun. How much simpler it had been when Stewart’s actions were the result of illness. She thought about the day he took her to the cabin and how it must have taken the strength of Hercules to act normal. He’d fooled her until the end.
Luke brought Stewart lunch. Weston’s shot had calmed him. He gobbled two hamburgers, guzzled a bottle of water, and fell asleep.
* * * * *
Don Weston had guessed the identity of their visitor from the beginning. How many men with strong schizophrenic symptoms and a connection to Abby had half their jaw missing?
“Please, Don,” Abby said, “give us more time to find out what happened. If the authorities in Charleston know his whereabouts, they’ll send him back to the same hospital that induced this psychotic state in the first place.”
“I find it hard to believe any reputable doctor would play with someone’s brain like this, Abby.”
“You have to know him. His name is Herbert Scanlon.”
Don hesitated. “Yes, I know him.”
“You aren’t surprised, are you? I hear no outrage that someone of his stature could or would play God.”
“Herbert Scanlon is a very controversial character in the mental health field. He’s a psychiatrist and a neurosurgeon. That means he can play with the brain two different ways. In spite of the taboo that doctors shouldn’t criticize other doctors, I’ll go on record to say that I think Scanlon is a nut. Despite all the research and new drugs, he’s still an avid proponent of psychosurgery.”
“What’s that?” Luke asked.
“Lobotomies. Doctors performed psychosurgery for decades, before the advent of chlorpromazine, or as you know it, Thorazine. The drug’s been called a chemical lobotomy. With the present pharmacological catalogue of anti-psychotic drugs, very few doctors perform that surgery now, and then only on a small percentage of patients.”
“Do you think Scanlon lobotomized Stewart?”
“I don’t see any outward signs. Lobotomies destroy partial or all functions of the frontal lobes. The patient becomes zombie-like. Stewart’s too emotional. I’ll check him out, though.”
“I thought no one could be made to do something under mind control that he wouldn’t do otherwise.” Luke said.
“If someone changed Stewart’s point of view,” Weston said, “reprogrammed him, in effect, he’d do whatever they wanted. That’s mind control.”
“Jeez,” Luke said.
“Please, Don,” Abby said. “All I’m asking is a little time. They’ll kill him.”
After weighing the alternative, Don agree
d. If anything came up later, Abby vowed to take full responsibility for the deception.
Stewart docilely complied with whatever Abby suggested. She told Don to keep Stewart’s location secret, even from her, but asked for regular updates on his condition.
“I’ll run tests to see the extent of damage to Stewart’s brain,” Don said. “If this is a systematic abuse of psychotropic medication or experimental surgery, someone will pay.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bruce Lee Light
“I got Norm’s email this morning,” Luke said. “He confirmed everything I thought. Tire skid marks near the scene of the accident indicated someone forced Matt off the road. They’ve gone over his car with a jeweler’s loupe, but they can’t find any exterior evidence to implicate another vehicle. Collyer, or whoever did this, is a pro.
Luke took Abby’s hand. “Norm wants to meet with me to hear the whole story before he gets involved.”
“That means you’re going to Charleston?”
“For a day or two. A guy by the name of Jeff Conti will be here with you. He’ll take you to and from work and stay with you at night. Don’t worry, he’s safe.”
“Safe? What does that mean?”
“I’ll put it this way—he’d be more apt to come on to me.”
Abby raised an eyebrow. “Um, how do you know one another?”
“He’s my martial arts instructor.”
“Great! I’m bunking with Bruce Lee in drag.”
“Not quite. If you saw him, you’d never know. Straight-looking as they come.”
“Did he make a pass at you?”
“Sure did. Straightened him right out, though. I’d been propositioned before.”
“Okay, that’s it. What is there about you that makes men come on to you? Some chemical pheromone? Something you’re not telling me, Luke?”
“Yup.” He pulled her close. “You’re the first woman I’ve been with who doesn’t complain about my lipstick and eye shadow.”
Abby threw back her head and laughed. She hadn’t laughed like that in months. “So that’s why you like me. That’s taking unfair advantage. I want to hear all about the guys who’ve hit on you.”
